Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "I'm tired," Daisy said with a faint smile, answering one of Adelaide's rush of queries. "But not overly exhausted," she quickly went on at the sudden concern appearing on her hostess's face. "And tea would be wonderful," she added, politely postponing her nap.

  "I'm so sorry about the scene at the Opéra," Adelaide immediately reiterated after they were seated in a small drawing room with tea astonishingly ready for pouring. How difficult had it been to maintain the tea table at the ready against her unknown arrival, Daisy wondered. "You must be furious and distrait and wishing every Montigny to the devil."

  Daisy had taken a chair near the windows overlooking the garden, the sunlight behind her casting her face in shadow, concealing her transient grimace at Adelaide's frank assessment. "I would have preferred a less public battleground," she admitted, shrugging in a lazy negligent gesture—a reflection of her experience with bigotry. "Since anger doesn't help, however, I've learned a long time ago to ignore scenes like that at the Opéra."

  "Despite your merciful indulgence, it still was dreadful of Isabelle," Adelaide murmured. "But typical of her malice. There's always a certain portion of society one must apologize for… endlessly. The faction to which the Montignys belong is the most rabid of Monarchists, the most conservative, and I'm afraid… the most reactionary."

  "It surprises me how Etienne could relate to the very disparate spirit of his wife. He seems the antithesis of a Monarchist." "They've always led separate lives—distinctly separate lives. Isabelle devoted herself to her dressmaker and milliner, to her afternoon teas, her daily drive through the Bois, social calls, dinners, followed by the theater or some soiree. With the customary minimum of four changes of gowns, her days were filled."

  "I can see how terribly busy Isabelle could be," Daisy sardonically replied, always astonished at the sheer idleness of the aristocratic way of life.

  "Etienne's interests have always been more diverse."

  "More than women, you mean," Daisy tranquilly noted.

  "You haven't known him long enough," Adelaide pointed out, pouring Daisy a cup of tea. "While polo and his racing stable are significant in his life, he's also the major shareholder in three railways and active in management of the Bourse."

  "He seems not to attend to business—are you sure?" she softly queried, taking the delicate cup and saucer from Adelaide. How could he be "active," as Adelaide suggested, when he spent all his time with her?

  Adelaide smiled. "He's indulging you, to the frustration, Valentin says, of his business manager, who no longer has Etienne's full attention. Nor do any of his other activities, Valentin informs me. You know he's somewhat of an authority on Asian cartograph—his maps are considered a requisite for passage across the vastness of Asia. His agricultural estates are models for efficient profitable farming, and he spends an enormous amount of time with his children. They've always been his first priority."

  Daisy knew of his devotion to his children, but with his altered schedule, she hadn't been fully aware of the magnitude of his other interests. "I hadn't realized… he apparently—" An added distress overcame her, hearing the full litany of Etienne's interests "has sufficiently filled his days as well as Isabelle."

  "And his nights. Although I think he's been a very lonely man for all his activities. He's very different with you."

  While Daisy was pleased in the jealous way of lovers to hear his life had been lived virtually apart from his wife, she was disconcerted to realize how fully his life was centered in Parisian society. How would their relationship be affected if she didn't wish to remain in France? And she didn't. She was committed to her tribe and family in much the same way Etienne was devoted to his businesses and children. He would very likely prefer not living in Montana. In all the joy and bliss of their love, they'd failed to come to terms with the physical distance separating their lives. Had he assumed she'd live with him?

  "Is the divorce likely?" she asked then, a sequential association to her musing. At the look on Adelaide's face, she added, "Please be frank."

  Sighing, Adelaide put her teacup down and straightened the embroidered napkin in her lap in unconscious delay. How honestly could she answer? "There are people who've known Etienne all his life," she said finally, her gaze lifting to meet Daisy's steadily, "who feel he's stepped over the line, and while they'll still consider themselves friends, they can't support the move he's made for divorce. The Church is enormously powerful. Many will act against Etienne as a matter of public policy, regardless of how they feel about him personally."

  While the right had lost political power, it retained social influence through its wealth, its prestige in society, its place in the great state services, and its links with the world of business. The Church, too, while not a political force, was a powerful social one, supported by an annual government budget as well as its own private wealth. Daisy understood the political alliances, and Adelaide's candid comments only served to remind her a real world existed beyond the perimeters of love. "You're not optimistic then."

  "Etienne's determined. An unknown factor… and a powerful one. He's familiar with having his way." Adelaide smiled then. "I don't mean to be pessimistic. Etienne's resolve will very likely triumph over the opposition. Charles, of course, controls a great many of the magistrates required…" Her voice trailed off. And Isabelle would stop at nothing, she knew—an inexpressible thought.

  "The Absarokee culture is so different in terms of marriage and divorce, I find the restraints of law a stifling obstruction one should be able to simply ignore. I know better, of course, and I feel great sympathy for Etienne. He shouldn't have to run the gauntlet of social disapproval." For me, she thought. A simple, damning observation. Because of her, he might be alienating himself completely from his former existence. An unpromising beginning for their own life together. It was too much to ask of him, she reflected with a piercing sadness that settled in the pit of her stomach. A great deal too much.

  "It's not as though Etienne's unfamiliar with condemnation by the prudish," Adelaide replied with a smile. "He must be immune after all these years. And what you must remember most is Etienne does what he pleases. He always has. Society's censure doesn't concern him."

  "I'm sure you're right," Daisy agreed, not wishing to prolong their discussion, understanding in this instance they weren't dealing with the accepted peccadillos of aristocratic males. They were dealing with a stubbornly recalcitrant wife, contesting a divorce with all the power of the judiciary and aristocratic tradition for support. "Hopefully all will be resolved amicably," she added, taking a last sip of tea. "If you'll excuse me now," she went on, placing the crested cup on the table beside her chair, "I'm going to rest for a short time before dressing. Etienne's coming to fetch me for dinner."

  "Of course, my dear," Adelaide quickly replied. "Leave word when you wish to be wakened. And don't despair… the divorce settlement will be agreed to, I'm sure. Even if Etienne has to overturn the entire structure of society single-handed."

  Adelaide's parting remark was not what Daisy cared to hear.

  It was exactly what she suspected would be necessary for their relationship to triumph over Isabelle's contention. Would it only leave their love in ruins? she wondered, a great weariness and melancholy inundating her soul. Would the burden of bitterness from the struggle spill over to tarnish the beauty of their love?

  * * *

  Daisy slept restlessly, assailed by doubts, all the practicalities suddenly in the forefront of her mind. How long would it realistically take for Etienne to be free? Even if his divorce went smoothly—which wasn't even remotely possible—would he return to Montana with her? Leaving behind the entirety of his former life? With the commitment she felt for her family and clan, how much time could she actually spend in France were they to marry? And after the scene at the Opéra and her talk with Adelaide, was she willing to deal with the constant presence of Isabelle in the society they'd frequent?

  Her answers, or more aptly—nonanswers, failed
to bring comfort. Not a single question had an unequivocal response, while Isabelle's malicious confrontation at the Opéra rose like an apparition of doom in Daisy's mind.

  Unable to sleep with the indecisive turmoil racking her brain, Daisy thrust aside the silk coverlet and rose from the resplendent rococo bed. Pacing the room as though her agitated thoughts might be driven away by activity, she moved from the balcony windows to the mirror. A grimace of dis-may directed at her image reflected the morbidity of her thoughts. What was she to do?

  Love didn't conquer all, despite the platitude.

  Love, in fact, in her case, had upset, muddled, deranged, and displaced her carefully disposed life. And dealing with the dizzying complexities bewildered her completely. Her long-standing belief that problems responded to rational order and intelligent thought was being overwhelmed by obstacles like Isabelle or Etienne's class affiliation, both paradoxically explosive and rock-solid. And immune also to exactitude.

  Unable to rest or sleep or gather her thoughts into any peaceful order, Daisy busied herself dressing early for dinner. She fussed in a thoroughly excessive way over her choice of gown and the jeweled pins for her hair, whether silk slippers in blue or lavender suited best, as though these inconsequential decisions held significance beyond distracting her from less soluble ones.

  Then dressed and bejeweled and perfectly coiffed, she stood at her balcony window very still for an indeterminate time, staring with unfocused eyes on the perfect beauty of Adelaide's garden.

  How much of one's life did one barter for love—for happiness?

  No answer came readily to mind.

  Only annihilating blankness.

  The sound of birdsong drew her from her uneasy reverie and she decided to wait for Etienne in the garden.

  Avoiding the main staircase, she descended to the ground floor by the servant's stairs, traversed the narrow back hallways, and entered the garden through a doorway used by the staff. The sun was low on the horizon, transforming the shrubbery into magical silhouettes, lacy and translucent on their borders. The birds were quieting, settling in for their evening repose, the frogs in Adelaide's lily pond beginning the first of their night songs. She strolled down the trellised arbor, vined in climbing roses, the fragrance of the early pinks, the Gloire de Dijon, and Sombreuil heady in the balmy air. The wild roses would be blooming at home in the sheltered valleys already, and soon the prairie yellows would be scenting the breeze on the great open vastness of the northern plains. She felt homesick suddenly with the sweet perfume of rose in her nostrils, homesick for the openness of her native land, homesick for the peace her family had established on their isolated ranches in the mountains.

  Her dress trailed over the manicured green of the grass, the pale creme dimity a ghostly lightness in the shadows of the arbor.

  Her hair was simply arranged in a chignon at her neck, her only ornament sapphire earrings, large teardrop-shaped stones the color of storm clouds. A gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, she'd selected them tonight for the happy memories they evoked. Hazard had called them spirit earrings because they glowed when the light struck them in a particular way. "Like night visions on the mountains," he'd said. She felt nearer her home when she wore them, nearer the security of her family, protected by the sky spirits, not so alone.

  The unpleasantness at the Opéra, the future possibility of recurrences, the entire superficiality of the glittering Parisian society burdened her as she strolled through the perfectly kept garden. Even Adelaide's landscaping reminded her of the discrepancies between her favored life and Etienne's. The parterres were too 'arranged,' the hedges too carefully clipped, the lawn so smooth one could dance on it unimpeded. Or play croquet—a vicious game masquerading as fun. Not a single fallen leaf marred the perfection of the grass; an assortment of gardeners swept the entire area each day as a precaution against disorder. Even the birds were selected with an eye to the colorful scheme and lured with suitable houses and birdbaths, with food sources carefully concealed behind the colorful array of flowers. Gazing up into the sky darkening into twilight, she thought how strangely out of place a hawk would look now, circling this jeweled perfection of a garden. She felt abruptly as though she were a prisoner in this walled and cultivated Eden, as though she too needed wings like a hawk to escape the confining sensibilities of Etienne's world.

  Back home in Montana, soaring hawks swept the skies, their territories miles of open country. The Absarokee had lived a life of equal freedom until recently, and her need to experience an existence without undue constraints was bred into her bones. Would her love for Etienne overlook those needs, would Etienne understand the compelling requirements of her upbringing in a culture so different from his? She was no longer sure. Yesterday she might have been. Last week she would have been confident of her answer. Tonight, no assurances came readily to her mind. Tonight she felt an alien… in this garden, in this city of lights. Despite the depths of her love, despite the fact she wasn't certain she could live without him… should she leave.

  Standing motionless under the darkening sky, she gazed up into the soft gray velvet of twilight, searching for the first stars of evening, wanting to raise the spirits if she could. Not certain they would hear her so far from the mountains she called home. She began chanting, her voice only a murmur in the warm night air and, shutting her eyes, she carried herself back across the ocean to the cool mountains of her home. When she opened her eyes a moment later, the stars seemed to have shifted, taking their rightful positions in the springtime sky. Even their brilliance seemed to have altered, a new crispness infused the air… the light haze of Paris skies displaced by lofty cloudless tranquility.

  Daisy smiled. There was pleasure in the ability to subtly change the world to suit her needs—however temporary. Her soft, "Ahoo" (thank you) drifted skyward. "Tell me what to do, One Above (Baakukkule). Show me the way." She dropped to her knees in a soft billow of fabric, her sapphires glittering like the stars with her movement, their weight on her earlobes, a presence… a link to the soil of home, to family. Her father had mined them near Ruby Bar; even the gold setting was their gold.

  She touched the faceted jewel with a light fingertip, felt its coolness. "Help me, Papa. I'm too far from home and so in love, I'm no longer the same." She listened then for a moment, her eyes shut, wanting a sign, willing her father to hear her across the ocean and continents.

  "Daisy!"

  The sound was faint… far away. He had answered her, she thought for a dramatic moment. The spirits had carried her words through the darkened skies to her father.

  "Daisy!"

  The sound was closer now. And familiar. Etienne.

  She opened her eyes, turning toward the sound. The man she loved was striding toward her, the white of his evening shirt and collar and cuffs a flash of brilliance across the distance separating them. He began to run, the jeweled studs on his shirtfront shimmering in the shadowed light.

  "We won!" he said as he neared, elation in his voice. "We won the club trophy for the third year in a row!"

  He hadn't told her how important his game was this afternoon; he would have missed it had she wished him to. And a kind of small sadness was added to the aggregate of her uncertainty. Why did he feel he had to give up so much for her? She didn't want to be the cause of great sacrifice for him. He was already disrupting the entire tenor of his life with his divorce. Surely she shouldn't be the cause of him losing the simple mundane pleasures of his life as well. A stabbing melancholy suddenly overwhelmed her and their future seemed an impossibility. Just as a signpost at a crossroads stands significant and obvious, a flash of memory struck her with equal force. Her return steamship tickets—conservatively scheduled when she'd left Montana—were dated three weeks hence. Three weeks, said the signpost of her memory. Three weeks.

  It was the answer she'd asked the spirits to send her.

  "What are you doing out here in the dark?" the Duc asked, helping her to her feet. One of the unse
en army of Chantel servants had seen Daisy enter the garden and given her direction to the Duc.

  "Enjoying the stars," Daisy said, the strength of his hand enfolding hers.

  He looked up briefly, glanced back down at her, and said with a smile, "How poetical." As if reading her mind, he added, "They're not the same, are they?"

  "No… but I've a good imagination. Why didn't you tell me you were playing for the club championship this afternoon?" she asked then because she had no wish to talk about her stargazing.

  "It wasn't that important." His smile was achingly beautiful.

  "You should have told me. I'm not a petulant child."

  "Darling, I'd gladly give up polo for you. The happiness you've brought me is beyond price." His voice was low, the pressure of his fingers added emphasis to his words.

  "Don't give things up for me. I don't want you to give up anything for me. It makes me feel—" she hesitated, searching for the proper word, "sad."

  "In that case, don't expect to see me in the afternoon until July thirteenth when the season ends," the Duc facetiously replied. "I won't have it said I made a woman sad." His grin shone in the dimness. "My reputation's at stake."

  "Are we talking an unbroken string of cheerful women?" Daisy's tone was sportive; she was determined to be an adult in mastering her feelings.

  "Cheerful women are my specialty—were my specialty," he added with a new softness in his voice. "We're talking singular noun from now on."

  "I like the sound of that," Daisy said. His declaration was in fact enormously poignant for a man unfamiliar with devotion. "Now tell me about the match this afternoon. Did you score? How many ponies did you use?" She had to change the subject immediately or she'd embarrass herself and burst into tears. Her feelings were too close to the surface, too out of control, too intense. She loved him too much.